Successor
by Rickard Steiner
Summary: Amid a province ravaged by dragons and a bloody civil war, a tired hero must raise his unlikely but fate-appointed successor in the crucible of conflict and in doing so, have the promise of a long-overdue death granted.
1. Chapter 1 - Fate Chooses

**Chapter One: Fate Chooses  
><strong>

_You have served me well. Indeed, Nerevar Incarnate, My long-suffering champion and saviour of My people, you have toiled in your service for long enough. Take comfort, for I give to you a boon; that which I know your heart has longed for all these years._

_I grant to you a release, an emancipation from your burdens. I grant you death. But for My love also, I give to you an additional blessing. You will have a successor. Heed my words well, Moon-and-Star. The days of Nirn are numbered, and you must yet struggle so that your inheritor shall receive his apportioned time. Seek him out in the place where prophecy first lay its load upon you._

_Find him and teach him, and together journey to Skyrim. Do not be afraid, for my strength and power are ever yours, and my arm shall not fail you. Go, and know that I will be watching._

The small legion of botanists, gardeners and artisans that had tended the Arboretum of the Imperial City were long gone, swallowed up in a war twenty five years ago, along with so many others that had lived in and cared for the beating heart of the Empire. When peace finally settled over the scarred battlements and the gutted districts of the capital, those precious few who could be spared to restore the gardens had neither the artistry nor the dedication to bring the Arboretum back to its former splendour, content with merely carving paths through the growth so that people could travel though to other parts of the city. Even a quarter of a century on from the conflict, what was once an open space now more resembled a forest. Trees both native and exotic had exploded in a verdant frenzy, forming a lush canopy of countless sorts of leaves and shades of green, beneath which the remaining plants battled it out for light and nourishment, broken only by the forgotten forms of creeper-covered statues, ruined shrines and the narrow, snaking trails.

It was by one of these paths that Cato Valerius lay in wait in the shade of a rose bush three times his size. For robbers such as himself, the Arboretum was ideal. There was no shortage of shadows and hidey-holes from which he could prey on unwary citizens before melting away into the foliage. The City Watch were largely confined to the district's gates with an odd patrol dispatched primarily to uproot any vagrants that they happened upon, and the clanking of their armour as they trudged along the route gave ample warning to anyone with half an ear of their approach.

This did not mean that the place was without danger, and Cato spared a wary eye to look upon the path that lead toward the city's outer wall. The Arboretum provided the sole connection between the Imperial City and the Arcane University, and the way was frequented by mages belonging to the Synod, the successor establishment of the old Mages Guild and custodians of the University. Cato feared the mages more than any city guard, and even a relative novice could pose a significant and unpredictable threat. The undergrowth concealed the blasted, charred and forgotten remains of many a criminal foolish enough to have accosted them.

But the hours passed by agonisingly slowly from high noon until the sun was beginning to sink behind the city wall, and as Cato's impatience rose so his vigilance and temper deteriorated; he hated waiting, and he knew fully that the anger originating from it would get the better of him, but when the faint sound of women's laughter began to come to him from the direction of the Temple District, he was past caring. He would have his pound of flesh for being made to wait.

Finally the owners of the voices rounded the corner into sight as Cato eyed them through the leaves of the rose bush. A pair of young noblewomen, as graceful and fair as to be worthy of a fairytale approached, chattering intimately with one another. Had he been scrutinizing them half as much as he could, he would have seen and marvelled at the riches that adorned the duo. He would have seen pearls and precious stones set in gold and silver, the earrings, necklaces, tiaras, brooches, and rings which lay heavily on them, clothed in delights brought to them from the farthest reaches of the Empire. He would have remembered that such finery rarely went unprotected, but Cato's rage had blinded him completely. Forsaking his ambush, he climbed from his hiding spot, and producing a dagger from his belt he stalked down the trail directly toward the women.

It was sheer misfortune that both of the noblewomen were too distracted by their conversation to notice Cato's undisguised approach. There had possibly been the odd glance in his direction, but they had been without consequence. The first thing they knew of the young man with the messy brown hair and hateful blue eyes was a blur as he violently struck his nearest victim in the face with his clenched fist. The woman fell without a sound, words stopped abruptly on her tongue, eyes still intent and oblivious. Cato took up her dazed form close to his, and blade at her throat, he held her up to her companion. The transformation on her face, to shock and then to terror was not immediate, occurring almost as if it was in slow motion, and Cato took an infernal pleasure in seeing the horror of the situation dawn on her. A tiny rivulet of blood began to trickle from the corner of his captive's mouth, spattering on her dress and wetting Cato's sleeve.

Adrenaline pumping, Cato opened his mouth to speak, but something at the edge of his vision interrupted him, and when he glanced to see what it was, his anger too evaporated into shock. The ladies had a bodyguard following behind them, a huge figure bearing down on him so quickly that Cato barely had time to react, let alone discern anything more about his attacker. Throwing the woman down in the path of the guard he bolted from the trail and tore through the undergrowth for all he was worth. The bodyguard, silent and focussed until now let out a cry of bloodlust behind him and continued his pursuit, bulldozing his way through the vegetation where Cato had previously had to dart and dodge. Try as he might, Cato couldn't seem to put any distance between himself and his pursuer, the crash of snapping branches and heavy foot-fall remaining dangerously loud in his ears.

The situation only deteriorated when something burning white-hot with magicka screeched inches past Cato's head from behind him, exploding in a shower of sparks on the trunk of a young birch tree and sending a maelstrom of smoking splinters into his's path. Shielding his face from the hail of shards, Cato risked a look back. The bodyguard was a nasty-looking Orc who to Cato's surprise possessed no youthfulness to his features or his posture, his hair grey and his face as wrinkled as it was scarred. Of more concern was his weapon of choice, a vile-looking Orcish long sword held like it were a mere plaything in the assailant's massive hand, the jagged, oily blade of which made Cato's already thumping heart pound even harder.

The fireball that had missed Cato had bored a circular hole the size of a dinner plate through the vegetation just higher than the bodyguard's shoulder through which light seemed to stream like the sun itself. For a split second, framed against the light at the very opposite end, Cato glimpsed in wonder the silhouette of the woman he had previously harmed, and if he had not feared for his life before, he certainly did now, the colour draining from his face as if it were being sucked from his body. All he had to see was the terrible corona of the magicka that enwreathed her shape and the brilliance where her eyes should have been to realise the damnation that he alone had set upon himself. Just as Cato turned his head to see where he was headed, the enchantress let loose her powers for a second, wrathful time. This time she didn't miss.

One moment Cato was running in terror, the next he was flying, his body convulsing and his eyes rolling in their sockets with sheer mind-numbing pain as the bolt of lightning hit him squarely in the back and blasted him off of his feet. He seemed to drift timelessly in a wash of uncertain sounds and blurred colours, truly aware of only his screaming nerves and the labour of his breathing, shallow and erratic. He didn't feel himself hit the ground straight away, and when it did it felt like some distant fact, like he was casually recalling some half-remembered childhood event. But then through the haze a feeling of alarm arose in his chest. He could make out the dim thud of boots upon the ground, each one shaking the ground more and more as their weighty owner drew closer and closer. Lying on his back, his eyes vacantly looking skywards, a figure materialised above Cato. There was something grasped in his two hands, something heavy and sharp-looking that was being arced in the air high above, something that was now being brought down straight for Cato's neck.

His limbs feeling like lead, his body feeling like it was moving through water, Cato rolled away from his would-be executioner. He was not quite quick enough to avoid the sword entirely; its tip drew blood, scoring the back of Cato's neck, but the worst of it bit into the ground harmlessly. The sharp, red sting of the new wound seemed to bring Cato to his senses, clarity of sound and vision seemed to rush to him from out of surroundings. He scrambled to both get up and to shunt himself away from the danger. He managed to half-run, half-stumble a few metres through the underbrush, only to find himself penned in amid the collapsed, overgrown shell of a shrine that once served one of the Eight Divines. It seemed that even the gods sought to thwart his escape.

Hearing heavy breathing behind him, Cato turned around slowly, once again drawing his dagger. The bodyguard stood before him, weapon drawn and held in front of him and body hunched in some sort of combat stance, skin glistening with sweat and eyed bright with rage. Cato knew he didn't stand a chance. He hadn't even used his dagger in combat before. A seasoned bully, he harassed only those who had neither the temperament nor the ability to defend themselves. This Orc had both.

"Alright, alright," Cato said between breaths. "You got me. I'm done." His dagger made a light thud on the ground as he dropped it. This only seemingly served to further enrage the bodyguard.

"First, you attack my charges," the bodyguard snarled, his voice gnarled and rising with anger as he spoke, "then you make off like a coward, and you have the gall to think I will now spare you from my vengeance? Pick up your weapon, fight me and die like a man, cur!" Cato tried to reply, but the Orc promptly bounded forward and took a hefty swing at him. He evaded it. Just.

"Fight!"

Despite the Orc's chunky physique and the weight of the sword he wielded, his attacks came thick and fast, not graceful but fierce in their delivery, as unrelenting as a whirlwind. The assault was so quick that Cato felt as if he were being ravaged by two or three persons, not one. A poorly placed step cost Cato his footing and once again he found himself on the ground, quivering and useless.

"Pathetic weakling!" the bodyguard roared, spitting on Cato before pulling him up by the his neck until they were both eye to eye. "Malacath crush your soul to dust!" The Orc began to squeeze on Cato's windpipe. Cato struggled, but the Orc's grip was like iron. He kicked against the Orc's vast torso but it seemed as effective as if he were kicking an oak tree, his hateful gaze unabated from Cato's increasingly purple face.

Gradually his fighting grew slacker and slacker and his senses began to dull and darken. In his final moments, Cato cursed himself for his lack of thinking and his uncontrollable anger. Time and time again it had served to be his undoing, and true to form, it was going to be what finally killed him. His thoughts were cut short, however; with unseeing eyes, he could sense something out in the encroaching darkness seemed to be waiting for him, its cold tendrils pulling at something in Cato's very essence as if to drag him out of existence. His heart was about to give its last, fitful pulse, and all Cato felt was pure, abject fear.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: It has been too long since I have posted any material here and I am glad to finally have a story that I feel is worthy to share with you all. Feedback and reviews would be greatly appreciated so that my writing can keep improving and I hope that you enjoy this story as it unfolds!**


	2. Chapter 2 - Alive For Now

Cato's awakening was slow, and for a while he just lay vacantly where he was, waiting for his senses to settle and for the fog that clouded his mind to pass. He did have a vague sense that he was somehow still alive; the dead didn't breathe. It took him all his mental reserves to recall the goings on that had led up to whatever his current situation was. Memory returned in fragments, heady and dream-like: two ladies walking along a path, blood on his sleeve, a maddened chase through the Arboretum. Then he remembered magicka, his mind's eye lit up by fire and an Orc's fierce golden eyes glaring right into his own, fist locked around his throat in a death grip. Cato started in alarm and scrambled across the floor in panic until he found himself pressed up against cold, damp stone, with an odd, heavy jangling sound following him as he went. It took him a few hair-raising seconds for him to realise that there was no one there.

Senses jumped into life by the shock, Cato's initial bewilderment subsided into nothingness, a numbness that did not usually come naturally to him as he viewed clearly for the first time his dank, murky surroundings. Manacled in rusty iron and stripped to nothing but sack cloth rags, the filthy, airless cell of the Imperial Prison greeted him with a grim familiarity. From the lack of a window, and from the stinking, rank wetness that wept through the masonry, he guessed that he was particularly deep within the prison's bowels, locked away further below ground than he had been on previous visits. It felt like he had been buried alive.

The only light source came from a lone torch out in the corridor which was itself out of direct sight from the door to Cato's cell, but there was enough flickering illumination for the young man to observe his surroundings. Surprisingly the room itself was quite large, certainly more spacious than those on the upper levels, but aside from the size it shared many similarities with its smaller brethren. In an alcove set in the far wall about a foot higher than the uneven stone floor was a bed, nothing more than a damp heap of old straw and sacking. Nearby were the fastenings to the wall for the chains attached to the manacles that Cato bore around his wrists. Though corroded over years of neglect, the ironwork looked sturdy, and a casual tug from their prisoner yielded nothing. Aside from these, the only furnishing in the cell was a rather putrid-looking bucket over in one corner. It looked so rotten that he wasn't sure it would hold anything.

Hauling himself onto his shoddy bed, Cato was suddenly distracted from his predicaments by the realisation that for all his recent falls and scrapes, not to mention the gash in the back of his neck or the strangling that he had been subject to, he felt remarkably little pain. With two fingers he probed his neck cautiously. Save for a few dried flecks of blood, he found nothing to suggest that the Orc's sword had broken his skin. Investigation of his throat, however, revealed some degree of bruising, though the pain when Cato pressed on it felt old, dull, like the bruise had been left for several days. He suspected magic; that or he had been out cold for longer than he liked to think. Rather than feeling any sense of comfort at his apparent wellbeing, disconcertion and suspicion flared up in him, the thought of someone interfering with his life, even for the better without his knowing angering him. That anger seemed to slot into his consciousness like a final piece of a puzzle, engulfing the feelings of vulnerability or despair that may have been lingering on his mind. It was something that he was used to being.

Cato sat there, simmering silently in his thoughts for an untold amount of time, the only measure of the hours that moved slowly through the prison bars were the occasional drip from the cell's ceiling and the slow dying of the nearby torch. A few times he got up, and walking to the cell gate he called out to see if anyone, be it a guard on duty on the corridor or a fellow prisoner in a neighbouring cell, but each time dead silence was the only reply.

The thought of an empty wing in the Imperial Prison seemed strange to him. Doubling as the city's main garrison, much of the Legion barracks had been damaged during the war, and most of the surviving former cells above ground had been converted into accommodation for the soldiery. That left precious little space for locking up criminals, traitors and spies, and an Empire emerging from the conflict battered and aggrieved had its axe to grind with anyone with whom it could blame for her maladies. Single cells usually held five or six sorry individuals, left to fight over meagre rations barely sufficient for one. Wings built for a dozen or so inmates held scores upon scores, suffocating in the heat and stench. Cato at first felt almost lucky; squalid as his surroundings were, they were nothing compared to the usual lots, but as time dragged on it became clear that his isolation provided no less of a hell. It didn't take long before he was feeling miserable.

A night passed outside before the first sounds of activity appeared in the deserted wing. At first the sounds were distant, carried from far away as echoes down the bare prison corridor, but as they drew closer Cato recognised the familiar sounds, the sounds of keys jangling, of the rusty screech of old gates opening and the clank as they were shut once more, and the harsh report of hobnailed Legion boots on the stone flags. The torch that had all but died overnight was renewed, crackling loudly and casting its golden light from its obscured place. Cato did not so much as move a muscle. Intrigued as he was, he wanted to see before he himself was seen, and so he lurked at the back of his cell where the shadows still offered him refuge.

"You've really put your foot in it this time, lad."

The familiar, kindly voice heralded the arrival of the jailor Cassius, and Cato felt an odd twinning of emotions, of both relief and agitation at his presence. Though the relationship between the two of them over the years could hardly be described as a friendship, the middle-aged man was the nearest thing that Cato had to a father figure, and he respected him for it, though he was loathe to express it. Whereas the other jailors took pleasure in breaking their charges, Cassius worked to mend them, perhaps having not tried harder than with Cato. As such he was glad to hear him, though he also felt a sense of impending shame at his mentor's predicted disappointment at seeing him back. The familiar stout, balding figure entered the cell and walked casually over to Cato's shrouded form, the heavy armour that he wore on duty jangling with each step, Legion gladius sheathed at his side.

"Let me guess, children of some aristocratic old fart? Some councillor's concubines?" Cato started, trying to sound uncaring.

"The Wayrest envoy to the Court here, Prince Fontaine, they're his daughters. Minor royalty. It's all the Watch were talking about when they brought you in yesterday," Cassius said with a glare of disapproval at Cato as he unlocked the manacles around his wrists. "Pointless having you in these. Wasn't me that brought you down here."

"And the Orc? He looked like no princess."

"Another bad enemy to make. Gurnak gro-Shub. Legion vet and an Orc's Orc to boot. Made a name for himself from pretty much clearing Talos Plaza with his bare hands when the City was retaken during the war." Cato rubbed his freed wrists and smirked at himself for the trouble he had gotten himself into, but when he looked up he saw no mirth in Cassius' eyes, his chiselled features stony. "Why do you have to do this to yourself Cato?" he said suddenly, his tone all of a sudden one of frustration. "You said you'd try and go clean this time." There was a long silence as Cato sat there dumbly avoiding the older man's plaintive gaze, unable to say anything, his failure no longer funny, the shame he had so anticipated blossoming hot on his cheeks.

"So what now? How long do you reckon I'll be here this time?" Cato asked in more subdued tones, the cockiness gone from his tone. Cassius drew his breath.

"That's the really bad news," he began, voice back to its former calmness. "The sentence came through this morning, the ambassador must've made quite a noise to have the trial cut out. I'm sorry boy, but the sentence is death. It's scheduled a week today." Cato sat still for a moment, less troubled by the news than he thought he ought to be. He hadn't had any hope to lose for a long time, and his life was not something that he figured many, including himself, would mourn at the loss of.

Suddenly, something occurred to Cato. "Hang on, why didn't Gurnak just finish me there and then? I'm pretty sure I should be lying dead under a bush somewhere."

"I can't say for certain. Word is the ladies stopped Gurnak short of finishing you. They're accomplished in magic, or so I've heard, and they patched you up well enough to be brought here. Can't say it was out of the goodness of their hearts though. Here." Cassius pulled an official-looking piece of parchment from his belt and handed it to Cato. "This is the full sentence. It might give you some insight." The two of them moved over and sat upon the step leading into the cell where there was enough light so that the words of the proclamation could be seen. Slowly and disjointedly Cato read it aloud, now and again turning to Cassius to help him with some of the larger, officious words of which there were many. One of the skills that the jailor had taught him was how to read, and he felt a strange sense of comfort in the familiar ritual of going through a text with him, even if it was his own death sentence.

"I see," Cato said when he had finished, handing the parchment back to Cassius. "So those women persuaded Gurnak to spare me for a public rematch in the Arena. Death by mortal combat. I still don't understand why they couldn't just be done with it."

"I can't help you there. Setting an example. Entertainment. Prolonging your suffering. Giving Gurnak a more honourable settlement. If they're anything as scrupulous as their father, I'm sure there are a dozen possibilities."

"I guess it doesn't matter now though. I'm dead all the same." There was another pause as the pair just sat taking the news in quietly, but eventually Cassius rose to his feet.

"I have to go and take care of my other duties. Is there anything you want, food, drink a bit of fresh air…a priest?" Cato snorted at the last suggestion, though Cassius remained straight-faced.

"Some food would be good. And some fresh air."

"I'll get someone to bring something down for you. I'll get you to the exercise yard when the other prisoners have had their slot."

"What do you mean? What's the problem with me mixing with the others?"

"Governor Terennius has given strict instructions to make sure none of the other inmates harm you…I guess Gurnak wants you in prime shape. It's why you're down here on your own. No company, but for what it's worth at least you'll get the rations all to yourself."

"I can handle myself." Cassius didn't buy it. Both of them knew full well that Cato had nearly as poor a standing with the city's criminals as he did with the law abiding elements. There had yet to be a stint in prison for Cato that had been free of both violence and injury, and more often than not it was his body than bore the welts and bruises of the loser in such situations. Even so, he said no more aside from a gentle shooing of Cato back to the other end of the cell so he could leave with minimal fuss.

"Cassius?" Cato suddenly called out. "It's good to see you."

"I wish I could say the same, lad."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I've been in a bit of a rut as to how long to make this chapter; rather than go for a larger chapter I elected to split the writings up for both logistical reasons and to have a quicker posting rate. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. 15/09/2014 – Changes and corrections suggested by DualKatanas made.**


End file.
